


Taking Care of the Dead

by Maple



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Quote Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-09
Updated: 2011-04-09
Packaged: 2017-10-17 20:12:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maple/pseuds/Maple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Darius' death, Richie is in the middle of the mourning period. It involves a lot of cheesecake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking Care of the Dead

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a Quote Challenge.  
> Here's the quote: "I rode to battle with the prophecy women, the women in black. After the fighting, they took care of the dead." The Foretelling by Alice Hoffman
> 
> I changed the quote a little bit, but you should recognize it when you see it.

Darius had three families, and it was all of us that lost him that fateful day.

His first family was Mac, Tessa, and I. After all, it was Mac that Darius had named as closest relative and had left instructions for after his death, which seemed incredible to even consider given that Darius lived on Holy Ground and was Immortal, but Darius was a really smart guy, so I'm not surprised he was prepared for every sort of contingency. I've never seen Mac so broken up before in my life, not to mention that the whole thing was sour and nasty, but besides the circumstances, Mac's heart was shredded. Maybe it scabbed over as time went by a little bit, but I don't think Mac ever really healed from losing Darius.

Darius' second family was the Church. Three other priests lived there with him, and countless nuns were always coming and going. It always seemed to me like he knew everyone, and he knew them by name and history. When I was briefly staying there--while Mac had us stuffed there for safety or while he and Tessa were off romancing--we could barely get across the courtyard on some days, we stopped to have conversations with everyone we met.

His third family were his parishioners. It was these people that I finally got to know after his death.

Out of the woodwork they came. After Daruis' death, after a suitable amount of time for personal mourning, they arrived at the barge, food in hand. Mostly women, mostly older, looking like every grandmother type that ever existed, but usually bringing with them other family members, forming a contingent of condolences. They handed off casseroles, cassoulets, and croissants. The small barge fridge was filled to bursting with dips and desserts.

Tessa offered them tea and biscuits, and quiet conversation. Mac offered them tight, useless smiles and went about his business.

Out of sorts, I hung around, helping them cart in the food from however they traveled, until one time Tessa wasn't there, and the gnarled woman bringing us another assortment sized me up. "My grandson has gone to school, I could use a good strong arm like yours, to help me deliver the food."

So I began to help her, and her friends. Mac, Tessa, and I were not the only ones grieving. These women baked and cooked comfort and solace for anyone touched by Darius' life. His absence was a void that needed to be filled. He'd offered gentle advice, words of comfort, guidance for living. Now they made the rounds, to the remaining priests that were his friends and co-workers and to the other parishioners that felt his absence the hardest.

And I rode to battle with these grandmotherly women, these women in black. After the loss, they took care of those that mourned. Food could never fill up that aching hole that is left when someone we love dies, even though they tried to stuff you up with enough of it so that your heart was the only thing about you that could be empty, but these women used it as a weapon in their battle. It was the Trojan Horse that allowed them into the house, let them sit with near perfect strangers and murmur comforting words while accepting gallons and gallons of tea and lemonade, sip down that ninth cup of espresso, and leave behind them something more important than the food: a sense that others cared, that the grief was shared, and that you should enjoy that piece of cheesecake today with a friend.

When we left Paris, my stomach rumbled for all that food. For all that caring. But I felt better, having had a taste of it.

Oh, man, I just wish Mac would have sat down and had some tea with those women. They'd have forced the cheesecake on him too.


End file.
